And so his life as a traitor began. When he was lying in his bed the reality of it seemed alien and far away. The camp was quiet and dark, dark because of jitters the air defense officers in Benghazi were feeling. American planes had come before, and very well could come again. More killing.
But Muhadesh knew that his guilt would soon end. Innocents would never die at his hands or because of his instruction again. His life would no longer be tied to a success measured in blood.
Absolution for his sins would not come automatically with his washing the blood from his hands, though. Tomorrow, he would begin to atone.
Allah will admit those who embrace the true faith and do good works to gardens watered by running streams. The unbelievers take their fill of pleasure and eat as the beasts eat: But Hell shall be their home.
Hadad let the passage repeat in his mind over and over before closing the book. The cover was still smooth from lack of use. Yes, he was devout, though that had not always been the case. The newer Koran he held was a gift from the colonel. In a way he was ashamed to think that at a time now past in his life he had been an infidel. Not in belief, but in fervor. Now his heart and soul were one with the wisdom of Allah.
There was still pain, though: the colonel. How was he now? Hadad wondered. In the solitude of the upper-deck lounge he tried to contemplate the pain his friend must be suffering, and the sacrifices that had been made. Hadad knew that their motives were different, and in a way, that was better. They were each driven by a desire for vengeance. Each had been wronged, their lives changed, and in a sense, ended by the deeds of the Americans.
The sterile ceiling he stared at from the reclined seat danced with images and faces. Places flashed; scenes of his home, that simple stone house in the land that always appeared desert like in photographs, but was lush and rich in heritage. Palestine. He had not truly lived there with his family for many years, but it was home. The Jews and their American protectors had usurped the land from its owners, citing biblical right and the need for a Zionist homeland. Of course their money and power gave them the right to do this…in this life.
Hadad felt himself smile. They would all be surprised. The Americans could not, and would not, try to understand the power of Allah. It would have to be shown to them. You take and take and take! Such arrogance they were capable of, believing that the little ones of the world would never strike back. If he had learned one thing, it was that the small, weak people could become one in the will of one strong protector. To the West it would seem a grandiose, wishful notion harbored by a man spurned by the world and evicted from the land of his birth. That might be enough to move some men to action, but not him. His reason was both personal and painful.
A cough came through the open cockpit door. The pilots slept, or tried to. Hadad listened for a moment before letting his head fall back in relaxation. He, too, should probably sleep, but it was impossible. Not while they sat here, waiting. The safety of their location reassured him that no one would touch them, or try to. America’s hapless Delta Force would not even try anything while they were on the ground under the protection of Colonel Qaddafi. But, still, he could not rest. There was too much stored energy. He wanted to be on with the mission and leave the waiting behind.
In Paris he had tried to put thoughts of impatience aside and concentrate on what was ahead. Now that things had begun, he wanted to finish it all. The climax was the reason for all the preparations. The purpose was salvation, and vengeance, and an offering to Allah.
The pages opened once again as Hadad brought his seat upright. If he could not sleep, he could find peace in the words and wisdom that he would take with him to his grave, along with so many unbelievers.
They were rested, if three hours could do that. All had slept the full one-eighty, as they called their standard three- hour nap. Some genius behaviorist somewhere had probably spent a hefty grant to figure the minimum optimum amount of sleep for the SOF.
Captain Graber was the first out of the makeshift bunk room. From ground level the 747 was a huge, winged leviathan that filled the hangar.
“Whadya think, Cap?” Buxton asked, slapping his squad leader’s Kevlar-covered back.
Sean cocked his head. “I think we’ve got a bitch of a takedown ahead of us.”
“If we go.”
True. Sean wouldn’t voice his realism.
McAffee appeared from the office, with Colonel Cadler and a guest. A civilian?
“Captain, get the team out here,” Blackjack ordered.
“Fall in!” Graber shouted over his shoulder, bringing the remainder of the troops out and around him in a loose half oval.
Dear God. Joe Anderson thought the major, dressed in his ninja suit, had looked strange. But these guys… They looked like killers.
“Colonel.”
“Thank you, Major. Men, this is Mr. Anderson. He’s got some old fly-boy blood in him, so show him a little respect.” Cadler glanced at the civilian. You reciprocate, his eyes said. “It turns out that we may have a slight problem with a nuclear weapon on board, but that’s not your concern. Mr. Anderson is the specialist there.” The colonel paused, seeing the exchange of looks. “You will, however, wear these.”
McAffee took the bag from Cadler and gave each man, himself and Anderson included, one of the olive drab wristwatches.
“Death watches,” Antonelli said as he received his.
Joe scoffed inwardly. Dramatics.
“Dosimeters,” Cadler corrected the lieutenant. “If there is a nuke on that bird it’s probably gonna be a crude one, which Mr. Anderson says means it would be dirty…very dirty. These’ll tell us if you get a bad dose.”
As opposed to a good dose. Joe concealed his comments. He hoped these guys could get him access to the device.
“Under your cuffs,” McAffee directed. “Captain, warm everybody up. Aisle sprints, up and back. I want everybody loose by twenty-three-thirty for the final planning session.”
“Yes, sir,” Graber replied. He pulled on his helmet and respirator, as did the others, and led them into the sister ship of the Atlantic Maiden.
“Major, I want a workable assault plan by oh-two-hundred. I can’t give Pappy our lean plan for this one.”
McAffee shook his head. “I know. I know. This one is tough. If that bad guy has that vest on we can’t do much except force him to blow it.”
Joe shifted his look between the two officers. “What vest? What are you talking about?”
“Our hijacker friend is decked out in a self-destruct device,” the colonel answered.
“With a hell of a deadman on it,” McAffee added.
“Thanks for telling me earlier,” Joe said. “This could have an effect on my work, you know. That thing you’re talking about could very well trigger the device.”
Cadler pursed his lips. “My oversight. Major,” he continued without missing a beat, “I anticipate pressure from another quarter. Word has it the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team has been working on this one, too, and that they’ve got a good plan.”